


smooth as liquor, sweet as honey

by palateens



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Arguing, Borderline Personality Disorder, Coming Out, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Animal Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Parent Death, Persistent Depressive Disorder, Polyamory, Self-Esteem Issues, Splitting, Suicidal Ideation, Trans Character, Transphobia, dysfunctional people loving each other as best they can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 21:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15082451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palateens/pseuds/palateens
Summary: Sometimes, they have to take their turns being the one to comfort the others. And sometimes, all they can do is hold onto each other tight and hope they don’t break.





	smooth as liquor, sweet as honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookwyrmling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwyrmling/gifts).



> This is "the five times Kent knew how to make his partners feel better, and the one time he didn't." My prompter said "the more unchill they are, the better" and I think based on the tags, I have definitely achieved that. 
> 
> It's a story about queer mentally ill people of color doing their best to support each other based on their lived experiences. Hope you enjoy it <3 
> 
> specific spoilers are at the end in case anyone needs clarification on some of the tags.

The Avs lose stupendously against the Bruins. As a team, they’re much better now than they have been in the last fifteen years. They’re climbing the central division rankings steadily. That doesn’t mean they’re immune to loses, however. It also means the locker room afterwards is hostile and silent as everyone tries to get dress and the fuck out of there as quickly as possible.

Kent watches the game from home with Lardo. They don’t go to every home game. When they do, it’s usually Kent who sits with the WAGs and Lardo who sits in a box. They both hate playing cis people in front of the team. But Derek needs the support and they’re happy to give it how the can. Kent knows how to talk to WASPs in a way that makes them think he’s one of them. It makes him cringe a little when they misgender him. But that’s the whole point right? The world thinking Derek Nurse has a sweet girlfriend who knows how to smile for the camera and gives better sound bites than the entire team and PR department put together.

Derek’s slammed into the boards a few times during the second period. He and the team fought back pretty well in the third period. They only lost by a point. It wasn’t a horrendous loss. Lardo mutters something next to him about how Derek shook them off pretty well. Physically, Kent knows they’re right. Derek’s had plenty of practice bracing for impact. He knows how to take a hit. Emotionally, though, he knows better. Those bruises are going to stick for days. A nasty reminder that they didn’t pull their shit together. Those are going to bruise Derek’s ego more than anything.

Kent says as much out loud. No matter how long someone’s played. No matter what level they’re at or how much they’ve won, a loss still hurts like a fucking bitch.

He gets up from the couch after the last post game interview cuts off. Derek didn’t have go with the press today. Kent thinks he’s just left the arena at this point. He goes to the master bathroom, starting a bath. He lets scalding hot water fill the tub, knowing that it’ll cool by the time Derek gets home. He grabs his secret stash from the back of the closet, pulling out a sheet mask, moisturizer from that trip he took to cabo a few years back, and a gel eye mask.

He remembers the lavender and coconut milk in the fridge. Lardo doesn’t look up from their phone as he passes by. They still give him a kiss when hovers by the couch for an extra second. Reminding him to grab oatmeal if he’s going to do it right. He thinks about grabbing the roses from entre way that Lardo bought the day before but decides against it. It’s nice to draw a good bath, but Derek gets overwhelmed if he feels down on himself and then thinks he’s being given too much.

Kent gets distracted by making the bath just right, letting the ingredients mix together perfectly.

He doesn’t miss hockey. He can’t when one of his partners is the face of the local market. There’s parts of hockey that will always have his hooks in him and his life. Social media, phone interviews, and the occasional public event where he pretends like his old life is still real, still relevant. Regardless, he doesn’t miss playing. There’s still watching tape with Derek, giving his two cents where he can, and Sunday morning optional skates. When Derek ditches the team and the two of them run drills until their lungs collapse.

It’s the only time Kent doesn’t have to choose between hockey and being himself. He can just...be. Just play with his partner because it’s fun, exhilarating, and challenges them both. He loves the glint in Derek’s eyes when they’re tired, dripping in sweat, and still have another few round in them. It’s like looking in a mirror, knowing that people can be shitty and boring but this, _they_ aren’t.

Lardo nudges his shoulder with their knee. He looks up at them gesturing toward the door.

“C’mon, he just pulled in,” they say.

Kent nods, practically bolting toward the door. Lardo hangs back. He hears them crashing into the bed, sighing loudly. They know sometimes Kent needs to take the lead. Sometimes it’s easier if one of them is there for the immediate comfort, and the other hangs back. It doesn’t make it any easier, he knows. It’s just how things are done sometimes.

Derek trudges into the house through the garage. Kent gives him enough space to head to the guest room if he needs space. Instead, Derek drops his things, slumping against Kent as Kent winds his arms around him. Derek groans into Kent’s shoulder, letting Kent rub his back sympathetically.

Kent doesn’t say anything. He knows a pep talk is worth shit immediately after a loss. Sulking is part of the process. He trusts Derek to talk if and when he’s ready. Sometimes Derek isn’t and talks to his therapist instead. That’s ok, Kent thinks. As long as Derek isn’t going it alone. As long as he isn’t making the same mistakes Kent used to.

He squeezes Derek tightly before coaxing him up the stairs. In the bathroom, he helps Derek strip, gingerly removing each piece one at a time. His eyes hover over a bruise on Derek’s arm, glaring at how it’s fucking with one of his tattoos. Derek snorts, kissing his forehead as if reading his mind. Kent leans over, kissing the bruise now that he knows it’s ok. It’s not a hard night. They can talk through it later.

He helps Derek into the tub, instinctively reaching to catch him when Derek winces. He shakes his head, letting Kent know he’s got it. Derek doesn’t have a real smile on at the moment. But the twitch on his lips is soft. It makes Kent want to step into the tub with him—to go over every inch of Derek with his lips until everything hurts less.

Derek groans as he relaxes into the bath. He closes his eyes for a while. Kent is content to watch him, occasionally dipping  his hand in to watch the oatmeal and lavender swirl. Someone, Lardo he thinks, turned on the surround system in the bathroom. One of Derek’s post game playlists plays quietly in the background.

Their quiet moments are some of his favorites, Kent thinks. They’re used to being on all the time. Derek out of everyone in the entire fucking world knows how hard Kent works to keep a good fake smile firmly on his face. It’s nice when neither of them have to keep pretenses up. When they get to not pretend to be happy or nice or cheerful when all they want to do is scream.

“Hey,” Derek says eventually, stirring Kent out of his musings.

Kent clears his throat, scooting closer to Derek’s face as he says, “Hi, how are you?”

Derek’s lips twitch again. “I don’t know. How are you, love?”  

“I asked you first,” Kent says.

“I asked you better.”

Kent chuckles. He leans over the edge of the tub, pecking Derek on the temple.

“Wondering what you need, mostly,” he says.

Derek groans, closing his eyes. “Fuck hockey. I need a better job.”

“Ok,” Kent says easily. “We’ll start looking in the morning.”

“My contract—”

“We can buy it out,” Kent says.

Derek cracks an eye open, shaking his head as he poorly conceals a smile. It makes Kent’s heart skip a beat.

“How about you help me wash my hair instead?” Derek offers.

Kent kisses him slowly on the lips, trying to suppress a grin of his own. He grabs the hair cleanser and the bowl they have just for washing hair. He pours a bit of water onto Derek’s head before massaging the cleanser into his scalp. It’s a bit of self care for both them. Derek gets the start of an all over body massage, and Kent gets to work with curly hair that’s better than his own. Derek’s hair isn’t fried from years of bleaching and straightening it. Kent’s hair only recently started to curl normally again.  

“You want to condition yourself?”

“No you should do it,” Derek says.

Kent purses his lips. He tries to stop himself from grinning. It’s hard to do that around Derek. He takes Derek’s hair one section at a time, working the conditioner in from the roots of his hair to the tips.

“You like playing with my hair,” Derek says

Kent snorts. “I like not ruining your hair more.”

“Is that why you’re always playing with yours?”

He shrugs. “Maybe, probably just a bad habit. But I can fuck up my own hair as much as I want.”

“True.”

Derek lets him massage his shoulders and his back. Derek lets Kent pat him dry slowly, pulling him out of the tub carefully. Derek lets him put the expensive moisturizer from Cabo over every inch of his skin. He lets Kent help him get dressed in the nice pajamas he saves for a rainy day. Derek doesn’t ask for help styling his hair, and that’s ok. Kent takes every touch Derek will give him like it’s a drink of water flowing down from heaven in middle of the vast desert.

It’s something they both need, Kent thinks when they climb into bed with Lardo waiting for them.

Sometimes, all they need is to know the other is there.

 

_/.\\_

 

Lardo’s having a hard month. It’s only gotten harder the longer it trudges on, Kent thinks. Their depressive episodes can be manageable. But there’s a point in every depressive episode where Lardo thinks they aren’t worth shit because they can’t magically pull theirself out of it. It’s frustrating on some level, for all of them he thinks. Lardo knows better, but that doesn’t stop them from taking longer to get out of bed. It doesn’t mean they can say more than a few words some days because they’re using too much mental energy to go to meetings and get to work on time.

They get to Thursday of that week before trudging into the house an hour before they normally get home, slamming the door on their studio. Kent takes a deep breath, then two, then three. His emotions are fucking stupid. He’s working on it, but sometimes he sees Lardo or Derek in a funk and wants to go after the first person he can find that could be making them miserable.

Kent gives them an hour to calm down. He preheats the oven for dinner, knowing that Lardo would rather have a pizza, some wine, and ice cream than a genuine attempt at cooking.

He knocks three times before entering the studio, giving Lardo time to tell him to stay out if they need it. They don’t stop him when he walks in and takes the brush out of their hand. Neither do they protest when he makes them get out of their business clothes and into a pair of leggings and one of his old Aces shirts. They hug him tightly in the closet, not letting him move for a while.

When they let go, Kent drags them downstairs to eat and drink. They binge watch reality TV shows they’re behind on (but only the ones Derek doesn’t care about so he doesn’t miss watching the Bachelor or Queer Eye). Lardo snuggles into Kent’s side as he turns on the heated blanket.

He pours them a glass of wine and starts murmuring “sip” every time one of their long standing drinking game rules comes up.

“Peck said ‘slick’,” Lardo says eventually. “Sip.”

Kent takes a long sip of his glass, then kisses their forehead.

Lardo sighs. “Talk to me in Spanish.”

Kent sighs, “uh, que mis ojos se despierten con la luz de tu mirad amor.”

They open their mouth, making a noise of protest. “That...you fucker that’s from a song.”

“You said talk to you in Spanish,” he says.

“Like something sweet and romantic,” they argue.

“That is sweet! It’s from a fucking love song!”

Lardo huffs indignantly. Kent knows that’s their " _I’m trying not to give you the satisfaction of my laughter_ ” sound. He takes it as the win it is, hugging them tightly.

“Hey,” Lardo yelps. “Careful with the wine.”

He shrugs, looking at where he’s spilt some on the blanket.

“It’ll come off,” he says.

Lardo sighs, nodding in agreement.

He knows not to push too hard. But he also knows Lardo probably has another few weeks until they get on an upswing again. They’re not going to magically feel better, but he knows they deserve to not beat themselves up so much.

“Don’t,” Lardo says.

Kent sighs. They’re good at knowing what he’s going to say next.

“Ok,” he says.

They sit in silence for a while.

“I hated the last therapist,” they say finally.

“I know,” he says, clearing his throat.

“And the one before that was a transphobe.”

“I know,” he agrees.

He tries not to say anything about it. He doesn’t want to argue that he’s had shit therapists too. That wouldn’t amount to shit and would make the situation more about him than their health.

“I just—” Lardo’s voice falters. “It’s hard, Kenny. It’s really fucking hard to be vulnerable with a stranger, and I’m so sick of trying.”

Kent takes both of their glasses and puts them on the coffee table. He buries his face in their head.

“I hate it too, sometimes,” he says carefully.

Lardo snorts.

“...most of the time,” he says. “Lardo, it’s not...some fucking magical cure all. They don’t make you like happy or stable or some shit like that after six sessions. It’s fucking work and it’s hard.”

“But…”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to walk away from therapists that aren’t right for you,” he says. “...Or fucking decent human beings.”

Lardo chuckles. Their face feels wet in the crook of Kent’s arm.

“Just means we gotta keep shopping until you find someone you like,” he says. “That’s all. You deserve good people in your life...including a good therapist.”

“Ok,” Lardo says says quietly.

He knows when to stop pushing. He can’t make them get a new therapist right now. He can’t make them try harder when he knows they’re already giving their best. He’s been there. He gets it.

But they let him squeeze the ever living shit out of them and feed them junk food that neither of them probably need. The little things are just as important as the big leaps. Lardo knows they need a new therapist. Lardo will think it over. That’s a pretty good step for today.

 

_/.\\_

 

Derek storms into the house one morning after a long roadie. He forgets to close the front door, but tosses his duffle bag halfway across the room. Kent closes the door for him, picking up the trail of clothing Derek leaves on the way to the bedroom. He follows Derek into the bedroom because he knows better. He knows the somber mood Derek gets in when he’d rather be alone, and this isn’t it. Kent knows he needs someone. Can feel the electricity in the air as the negative emotions come rolling off Derek’s shoulders in waves.

Kent sits on the floor of the bedroom, watching Derek pace for a while in his underwear until he calms a bit. He slips a shirt on, but keeps pacing. Every step is restless with an undercurrent of frustration. It makes Kent’s head spin. He keeps watching, waiting for Derek to speak up.

It doesn’t happen after ten minutes, or forty. Derek keeps pacing until he runs himself ragged. When his shoulders start to droop, Kent gets up. He taps Derek’s shoulder lightly.

“Don’t,” Derek snaps.

Kent nods, sitting back on the ground. Derek falls against the bed, screaming into a pillow. Kent grimaces. He figured it was a rough day. He just didn’t want to assume Derek split, or was on the verge of it. Kent puts on the TV, turning the volume all the way down. The sounds coming from it are barely above a murmur.

He gets up, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. He closes his eyes and counts to ten, then a thousand. He gets to five thousand and four when Derek sits up, tucking his head between his knees. Cautiously, Kent moves to the edge of the bed. It’s a dance they do every time one of them splits, or feels like splitting. When they feel like monsters and the only other person who could convince them otherwise knows what it feels like.

It doesn’t happen all at once, but it goes like this—Kent moves closer, and Derek uncurls his body. Derek melts into the bed, and Kent crawls into his lap. Kent kisses everything but Derek’s lips, until Derek feels ok enough to initiate it himself.   

Then they’re kissing turns harsh, deliberately towing the line between passionate and angry. Derek’s angry with himself, and Kent’s angry at the world on his behalf. Angry because Derek doesn’t split unprovoked. He works so fucking hard every day of his life to be chill. Someone has to push really hard to get under Derek’s skin.  

“You’re ok,” Kent murmurs into his lips. “You’re the most amazing man who ever lived. Fuck ‘em. Fuck all of them.”

“You don’t know what they did,” Derek says.

“Does it matter?”

Derek nods. Kent wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders.

“What do you need?” Kent asks.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“You say what you wanted to?”

“Of course not,”Derek says. “Fucking hockey players.”

Kent kisses him harder, trying to stop Derek from fixating. “Yell at me.”

Derek shutters. “That’s a stupid idea.”

“I don’t care,” Kent says.

“You don’t deserve it,” Derek insists.

“You’re not a bad person for being upset,” Kent says.

“Sounds fake,” Derek says with an airy voice. It’s distant, and fake.

Kent grits his teeth. “Tell me to fuck off or scream at me. Don’t ice me out.”

He knows he’s said the right thing when Derek tenses, moving away from him.

“Get the fuck out,” Derek shouts. “You think I like playing a fucked up version of house like this? You think it’s fun or cute that you have to go fucking stealth to fit in my life? Why the fuck am I trying so hard to make shit that’s so fucking broken!”

“Ok,” Kent says, getting up without another word.

He thinks Derek says something as he walks out the door, but he doesn’t turn around. He gets it now. It was another homophobic, transphobic fuck fest. If Derek did do anything, it was storm out angrily. Everyone will assume it’s because he’s Jack Zimmermann’s college buddy. Not that Derek himself is any flavor of queer.

Kent gets it. Derek blames himself for not being able to do or say anything. So he gets angrier at himself for doing nothing. Kent finds a shady spot in the backyard to draw for a while. He thinks about journaling, but decides against it.

It’s hard for Kent to tell himself he’s worth much on normal days. It’s hard to be affirming on paper when he has the stamina for it. Right now, he just...doesn’t.

He draws swirling winds, blades of grass bending in the breeze, and the foothills as clouds rolls over them. He draws until his hand starts to cramp up, then decides to just nap. He uses his sketchbook for a pillow.

He stirs when someone sits down next to him.

“That was so fucking stupid of you,” Derek says.

“You needed someone to be angry at,” he says.

“You’re not my punching bag.”

“You’d never punch me,” Kent argues.

“You know what I mean,” Derek mutters.

Kent groans, sitting up. He doesn’t look at Derek, just stares out into the distance.

“You’re not a bad person,” Kent says. “You can have a bad day. Fuck, you can have a bad year and that doesn’t make you a bad person. I love you. It’s hard not knowing what you want and what you should do when you’re not used to wanting things for yourself.”

“You say that every time,” Derek argues.

“I mean it. You’re not bad. You deserve to be angry.”

“I don’t know about that,” Derek says.

Kent shakes his head. “Someday...letting go will be easier. But you’ve spent most of your fucking life stuffing emotions so far down that you don’t even know what they are anymore. You know how unfair that is to you?”

Derek takes a deep breath. “I guess.”

A cloud rolls over them. Kent thinks about the desert. Thinks about how this place doesn’t get a whole lot of water either. Yet more vegetation grows up here. Things have learned how to thrive up here. He thinks that even the driest, most calloused, plants deserve water. Deserve the best environment for them to thrive. Even if it means going through a few bad years (or generations...or whatever…) to come out right.  

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. “You should’ve listened to me. But I’m still sorry.”

Kent shakes his head as Derek moves closer to him. “Don’t be, I’m the idiot who asked for it. I’m sorry you had to deal with that shit. I hope I helped...or didn’t fuck shit up more than necessary.”

He lets Derek hold him.

“I didn’t mean it,” Derek says.

“I know,” Kent says. “You’re allowed to be scared, babe. The league is scary as shit. You don’t have to be ok with how much it sucks.”

“Feels like I should be...should be used to it by now, at least,” Derek admits.

“No,” Kent says, clutching Derek tightly. “Not here. It sucks, you can say it.”

Derek chuckles softly, mixing laughter with sobs. Kent thinks his voice joins in too. Kent doesn’t miss hockey, but he’ll fight for every second Derek wants to stay in the league. The second he’s done, Kent will do everything in his power to help him retire. Derek’s allowed to hate something he loves sometimes. He’s allowed to be great at what he does and still struggle with dismantling the bullshit the league brings. He should be able to go as far as he wants and stop the second it’s no longer fulfilling.

It’s what he deserves.

_/.\\_

 

Lardo’s halfway through packing a luggage to go to St. Louis for the weekend with Derek, when they start screaming. Kent hears something crash before he goes upstairs, stopping Derek from following him. He finds Lardo throwing half their clothes across the room. It’s a lot of their old things, plus some of the shit Kent wears when he has to play WAG for Avs stuff.

“What the fuck am I supposed to say to these people!” Lardo screams.

Kent doesn’t reply, knowing they mean it rhetorically.

“They’re all fucking successful with their stupid perfect families and six figure salaries,” Lardo says as they throw a pair of pants at the wall.

Then again, sometimes it’s good to tell other people that they’re spiralling when they are, clearly, spiralling.

“Don’t tell them anything,” Kent says.

“That’s not how it works,” they argue. “I’m supposed to put on a happy smile, pretend to be some cishet fucker from the suburbs and then what? ‘Oh yea, I have two partners and a house and maybe we’ll never get married but we might have kids? Oh, you one job and weekends off? I have two part time gigs that fund my real career. It hasn’t gone anywhere in five fucking years.’”

“Or you could not and say you did,” he says.

Lardo huffs, pushing some hair out of their face. “I need to do this, Kenny.”

“Because…”

“I have to prove I’ve done something with my life,” Lardo says. “If I don’t show up, they’ll assume I’m some hermit with no life or something.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions to throw at strangers you don’t give a fuck about,” Kent says.

“I do give a fuck,” they say.

“Because they were your friends ten years ago?”

Lardo grunts. “Could you not be the rational one for five seconds and act like the salty bitch I know and love?”

“Always,” he says, preening.

“If you could go back to your juniors team—”

“I would never do that.”

“But if you could…” Lardo says.

“I would show up in the most genderfucked outfit possible with both you and Derek on my arms and my middle fingers up the entire fucking time,” he says.

Lardo scowls, Kent knows they wanted something more self righteous. But they also know he’s right.

“Ok but if you couldn’t do that?”

Then he’d be living the same life he did in the NHL. Pretending he was some hotshot playboy with the easy life and a cocky attitude. Lardo knows better than anyone how much he hates feigning confidence. It’s why he first fell in love with them. They saw past the bullshit. They didn’t see someone who was using beer pong as a lame way to assert dominance. They saw a pathetic sap ready for someone to prove he was right about how he felt about himself.

Lardo did something back then that blew him away even more, saw past the bullshit and still wanted to talk. Still wanted to get to know who Kent was behind the hockey mask (no pun intended...even though Lardo’s thrown him into the pool of his Vegas house before for making that joke).

“I wouldn’t go,” Kent says. “What’s the fucking use? These shitty ass reunions are to prove you won or some shit right? How the fuck are you winning if they shove you back in the closet?”

“And if the WAGs wanted to meet up in five years?”

Kent pales. Smirking mostly out of reflex. He hates being caught off guard where it cuts a little too deep. “You play dirty. Fine, I would show up in the nicest shit possible and pretend I’m better at them in everything I hate.”

“Right? So what do I do?”

He picks up the shit they’ve thrown all over the room. He riffles through everything they were planning to pack. He tsks for dramatic effect because he’s an ass like that.

“You need the rich bitch stuff,” he says. “...And wear one of the diamond rings.”

“Which one?” they ask.

“The biggest, duh.”

Lardo snorts. “You’re the only person I know who buys theirself diamonds.”

Kent shrugs. “What can I say? I’ve got a lifelong commitment to me. Might as well make myself work for it.”

They laugh. It’s a soft, cracked sound they make when they know it’s time to laugh. Kent frowns, reaching over the luggage to hug them. He gets it, or at least he tries to. Even when he’s burned through half of his adolescent experiences to make sure he never again has to be something he’s not, there’s still that impulse to pretend. When a person’s been pretending for the sake of self preservation as long as they all have, it’s hard to unlearn that shit. It’s hard to remember that some people are safe and ok to not be perfect around when trusting other people has proven to be a liability in the past.

He thinks Lardo of all people deserves a house where they can leave their fake chill at the door. But he knows it’s not that easy, and it may never be. He just hopes they learn in time to give theirself more credit. They deserve to know how amazing they are at everything they do. Even when they stumble, Lardo always gets back up.  

“The only person you should care about is how you feel about you, y’know?” He murmurs.

Lardo nods, hugging him tighter. “I know, I’m working on it.”

_/.\\_

 

Sometimes, it isn’t Lardo or Derek who has a hard day. Sometimes it’s both of them at the same time. Kent has to sit back and let them grumble at each other for a while. It’s something they picked up during their Samwell days, gravitating toward each other when everyone else in their group thought they were “too badass” or cool or whatever to need or want support. Kent keeps his distance, looking over their finances quietly in the kitchen. He starts jotting down notes for an article to sell at some point about knowing when to let someone else be there for one’s partner(s).

He starts a grocery list divided by what he can buy at the farmer’s market and what’s easier to get from Kroger. He’s not a food snob, but he knows that if he has the extra cash to splurge on fresh tortillas and peaches from local vendors, he might as well. In the living room, he hears Lardo and Derek get off the couch. He waits a minute to see where they end up. Sometimes they go their separate ways into their own workspaces and sometimes they end up together in the backyard.

The sliding glass door squeaks as someone throws it open. It’s a good afternoon for cloud watching, he realizes. As he works on laundry, his mind drifts. Despite how he feels about some of the WAGs, they get it. They don’t judge him for being a house spouse (for lack of a better word and the fact that it rhymes with ‘house mouse’). It’s not that he can’t go out and have his own fucking career. He spent a decade pushing himself harder physically and mentally than any other player on his team’s roster. He knows what it’s like to be at the top of his fucking field.

Most guys in his position wouldn’t get a day job until their finances ran out. He’s got a nest egg and enough in his rainy day fund to get him through a few years on meager means. Derek pitches in a lot for the day to day expenses and Lardo gives to their savings when they can. It’s a team effort, and so is their home.

He’s had plenty of time to go out there and see the world. He’s happy to sit back and let the other two find their wings for a while. He likes making a home worth living in. He likes the sense of accomplishment it gives him. Granted...eventually he’ll get more than well rested. Likely veering into bored for how restless he’s always been, and try his hand at college or retail or something.

Kent imagines Derek burying his head into the crook of Lardo’s neck as they describe the clouds passing overhead. It’s a pang in his chest, knowing that they’re doing alright without him. It makes sense. They’re all different and their dynamics don’t always sync up perfectly. Sometimes Kent wants to talk to fill a silence that doesn’t need interrupting. It’s nothing personal, he knows. He hates it too.

There’s only so much he can do or say before he stops believing his bullshit too. They don’t owe him the chance to help anymore than they owe it to anyone but themselves to feel better. Kent knows sometimes his desperation to feel useful outweighs what other people actually need. It’s good to have moments where he knows where the line is. He can go outside if he wants, but that moment isn’t for him.

There’s history between them that he appreciates and loves, but will never be apart of. Kent finishes balancing the checkbooks, adding a few hundred extra to Lardo’s checking that he knows they won’t notice right away. Kent leaves snacks out for them because he knows they won’t have the energy to make themselves dinner later. He puts on one of Derek’s afternoon playlists--one of the softer EDM mixes that they all can stim on for a long while when the world is too loud and up--and moves himself and his laptop into the finished basement.

He starts on a book that he was asked to review for a trans media website. It’s a decent read but it misses a lot of nuance when it comes to gender identity and reads largely like a dry, failed attempt at reconciling binary ideas in the context of nonbinary culture. That, and it tries too hard to make obscure jokes feel witty and authentic.

The door of the basement opens eventually. He thinks he hears someone calling his name. He says “yea?” to let them know where he is. He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps descend. He doesn’t say anything when he’s trapped on both sides by people curling into him. He just closes the lid of his laptop, puts it on the floor in front of him, and wraps his arms around them both.

They fall asleep on top of him not long after that. It lessens the ache in his chest a bit, knowing they’re better now. They worked through what they needed to together and still had room for Kent’s support. Even when he knows logically it’s about making them feel better, it’s nice to be wanted. It’s nice to know that even as an afterthought, Kent is still important.

_/.\\_

 

Gina Parson dies in Reno on a Thursday night in May. The news outlets run stories about her being one of the greatest skaters of all time. Her proudest accomplishment was producing one of the greatest hockey players of all time, they say. Kent laughs as he reads through another news story. The sound coming from him is acerbic. Spit mixes with vile at the back of his throat. The humming of the fridge is the only thing keeping him company at the moment.

Days like this, he wishes he’d adopted another animal after Kit. He remembers when shit days used to be worse than this. All he could do was bury his nose in her fur, try to breathe, and remember his heart was still beating for some fucking reason. What reason? He still doesn’t get some days, but he’s better at not thinking about it. His latest therapist is working on making him forgive himself for existing.

Gina Parson died in a hotel in Reno. They initially thought it was an overdose, but it turns out to be an aneurysm. The hotel staff found her on the floor of her bathroom, reports say. Kent thinks of a bathroom in Montreal and the stench of vomit. He imagines that woman lying there instead of Jack. He imagines her writhing in a pool of her own self hatred.

It doesn’t make him feel better. He pukes in the sink, groaning at the thought of how long it’ll take to get the stench out of the room.

He thinks about calling his mom. The one who’s still alive, loves him, and never fucked him up to the core. He wonders what Mariana thinks about all of this. If she’s upset her first wife, the mother of her children, is dead. Or if she’s relieved that her ex—the transphobe, the abuser of her eldest child—is gone for good.

A part of Kent thinks he’s supposed to call his therapist. If he’s supposed to have this heart to heart where he admits he probably wouldn’t love the ice as much as he does if it hadn’t been for Gina. If he’s supposed to say “for what it’s worth, I owe her for making me wanna win those Cups out of spite.”

His sister texts him “good riddance, bitch” not long after that. He resists the urge to tell her don’t talk about their mother like that. Izzy never had to deal with Gina, fortunately. She was only a few months old when Mariana divorced Gina. Kent worked really hard to make sure Izzy got a better childhood, worked to the bone in the Q so her teenage years would be brought up with more stability than either of them were used to. Mariana too—after everything she did to keep them both safe and happy, it’s the least he could do. She’s a good mom, Kent thinks. He doesn’t know how he would’ve gotten through the NHL without her. Even when it felt like too much to call and say he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep playing.

It’s been a really long time since he’s felt this shitty about himself. Years since the last time he thought of himself as a cancer, sucking the life out of everyone he meets. He knows better, he thinks. But that just pisses him off more. He knows better, so why the fuck is he upset?

He thinks about going out for a run. He thinks about sprinting until his lungs give out and passing out in the hot sun. It’s not as bad here as Vegas, but there’s still a chance he could get a heatstroke.

Regardless, he can’t do that. He has dishes to wash. The dishes don’t take more than ten minutes to finish before setting them in the drying rack. He’s alone again with his thoughts. Fuck.   

He can’t make himself mop, write, or eat. So he resigns himself to going back to bed. He turns on ESPN where they’re covering Gina’s career and legacy (and way too much on him). He’s surprised his agent wasn’t the first person to call him with the news of her passing.

“In her interview last year with 60 Minutes, Gina said her only regret was not raising her daughter to be the Olympic champion she knew she could be,” the reporter on the television says. “No one can confirm the existence of another Parson besides former Stanley Cup winner, Kent Parson. However, sources claim—”

Kent laughs through tears. Of course, even in death Gina had to get the last word. The only person who’s ever hated Kent more than himself is Gina. The only person who could tear him apart that well was Gina. He wonders how long he would’ve lasted if she had won the custody battle. She didn’t care about Izzy, she just wanted to keep training Kent to be her redemption or some shit like that.

He feels something wet on his face as a soundbite from her last interview two months ago plays. Another mention that she wanted to do more with her career and that of her daughter’s. Even when she misgenders him in public, people don’t fucking get it. They never will unless he shoves it in their faces. Not that they deserve shit from him. But he deserves to move on from the cage she built for him.

He grabs his phone. He doesn’t check which Twitter account he’s logged into. Fuck her and fuck everything.

_@RealKVP 1:43pm Thanks mom, even in death you know how to treat me like I’m not a real man. Sorry your little girl wasn’t fucking cis._

He hides his head under the blankets. Gina Parson died in Reno last night. Kent Parson died years ago in Las Vegas. It must be a family condition—genetically unable to withstand the harshness of the desert. He thinks whatever’s left of the Parson in him is the part that wishes he’d made amends with her. It’s the idiot sap in him who feels like everyone deserves a second chance and fucking redemption.

Everyone deserves love and comfort, he thinks. Not everyone lives long enough to find it.

He stares at the light leaking in through the blankets as the news coverage keeps coming. He thinks he hears his name being mentioned. He thinks he hears his phone go off. He can’t move. He wouldn’t if he even felt like he could.

Someone slams the door downstairs. It makes him wince. He’ll have to make sure the paint’s still intact later. He likes fixing shit around the house. It makes him feel useful. Something gets caught in his throat as he hears someone shouting his name.

He doesn’t say anything when Lardo’s voice gets close enough for him to hear them shouting for him.

“Kenny, what the fuck?” they say.

He says nothing. They try to shake him a little. He stares at them listlessly when they pull the blankets off his head. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t think there’s anything to say.

He always has the fucking answers. That’s his job. He’s supposed to fix the shit he can and say “fuck it” to the stuff he can’t. There’s nothing for him to do here.

Nothing he can fix, and nothing he can toss away.

Lardo looks really concerned and distraught, so he grabs them to hug tightly. They protest for a moment, so he lets go. He buries his head in his pillow. Lardo says something he can’t understand.

“Are you ok?” they ask for the millionth time.

He figures out how to force himself to shake his head.

“Can we talk about it?” Lardo says quietly.

He smiles for them, hoping it’s enough to calm them down. Apparently it isn’t convincing enough. It just makes them more upset. He’s tired. So fucking tired, like he hasn’t been in years. He covers himself back up so they don’t see him cry.

Lardo storms out of the room. Kent thinks he falls asleep because the next thing he knows, his face is tearstained and Derek’s gently nudging him awake.

“Babe,” Derek says a second later. “C’mon, talk to us.”

Kent doesn’t say anything. He expects someone to yell at him for not getting his shit together. It’s fine, he thinks. He’s used to it. Emotions are for weaklings, afterall. That’s what Gina always taught him. He’s pathetic to show weakness and that’s all he can do right now.

His mother’s dead. She made him cry, bleed, and hate himself. But he wouldn’t have the life he does now if someone hadn’t put him on the ice in first place.

Weight falls on either side of him. He feels Lardo wrap their arms around his shoulders while Derek lies down half on top of him. The weight is nice. It makes him feel a little more real. It’s heavy without any bullshit plan to hurt himself.

Kent realizes, ironically, that he can breathe better now. Which means when Derek whispers “it’s ok, we got you” and Lardo says “we love you, ok?” there’s nowhere for Kent to hide. There’s nothing left for him to deflect to or supress. No person to blame anymore for the way his mind is twisted and mangled in two.

His mother is dead, and the only person left to blame for the disappointment he is is himself.

Kent lets his partners hold onto him for dear life because he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know how to make them feel useful or helpful. He doesn’t know what to say if they start asking what he needs. He needs a new brain, he thinks. And a heart that isn’t as shitty and weak as the one he has now.

Sometimes, they have to take their turns being the one to comfort the others. And sometimes, all they can do is hold onto each other tight and hope they don’t break.

**Author's Note:**

> fic title - based on lyrics from cold heart killer by lia marie johnson
> 
>  
> 
>  **tag spoilers** Kent has two moms in this universe (one cis and one trans). The last scene is his reaction to finding out his cis mother (who he is estranged from and suffered abuse from in the past) is dead. There's mixed emotions and a brief reference to Kit Pursson's passing (died of old age).  
>  Furthermore, both Nursey and Kent have BPD in this fic and express it in different ways.


End file.
